


Never Leaving

by Starlithorizon



Category: Cabin Pressure, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, didn't we all expect this?, mild themes of horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A raggedy English airdot flies to a frightening American desert town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I've been doing this instead of important things for about a week. Two things you will note: I (shockingly) haven't written Skipthur this time, and I'm and American writing with a British narrator in an American place and that's just weird. Just roll with it, guys.  
> I guess previous knowledge/obsession with Cabin Pressure or Night Vale isn't _vital_ here, and there aren't any spoilers (unless you count Theresa as a spoiler for "Vaduz," sorry), but, you know. It's more fun if you're way too deeply engrossed in both.  
>  And do you know what I know about planes? Very, very little. This is also poorly researched.  
> Finally, this wasn't beta'd, and my editing was fairly minimal. Impatience is a real thing, guys.  
> Long story short: I love all of these idiots, and I hope you enjoy the terrifying fruits of my labour! I really enjoyed writing it, though. :)

They were above the sprawling deserts of the American Southwest, preparing for descent, before Arthur bustled into the flight deck.

"Hi, chaps!" he said brightly. "Our passenger wants to know when we'll be landing."

Martin offered a vague sort of smile to the steward.

"Tell him about twenty minutes. We're preparing for landing now."

"Right-o!"

Arthur scarpered off to prepare the cabin and their _extremely_ wealthy passenger for landing.

"I'm surprised Arthur's spent as much time with our passenger as he has," Martin muttered, hands aimlessly searching for coffee that had gone cold long ago. "Doesn't he usually spend more time in here?"

Douglas raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Isn't it, perhaps, _better_ that way?"

Martin smirked at his FO as he gave orders for descent. That was, of course, when the flight went from the pale shade of peculiar most MJN flights were straight into _weird_ , and perhaps a bit terrifying.

"That's not right," Martin muttered at the malfunctioning instruments on the panel before him. No lights were flashing, and no alarms were blaring, but there was obviously something very wrong. The numbers and dials and letters were all fluctuating madly, and there was an odd sensation of _screaming_ from the instruments.

"That's it then, isn't it?" Douglas asked, gesturing minutely at the town just on the edge of sight which seemed to be... Well, according the the maps and instruments, it wasn't _there_. And yet, both pilots were staring plainly at the town which looked to be their destination.

"Mr Vansten _did_ say our approach would be...difficult," Martin said slowly, doing his best to keep the fear out of his voice. It didn't tremble, much, and he didn't stammer, but he'd known Douglas for a long time. Douglas knew Martin was beginning to panic.

"You're right," the older pilot said quietly, placating his friend and colleague. It seemed to be useless, though, as Martin began the fall into something quite like terror.

"Except nothing says it's _there_. They all say that there's _nothing_ there. Well, the maps say that at least. The instruments look like they're... Douglas, I think they're screaming."

Douglas shot his captain a look of concern, but before he could worry too much, they hit a powerful pocket of turbulence. Douglas put his finger on the intercom button and told the cabin to strap in, and that everything would be fine. Almost before he could shape the N of "fine", the plane gave a terrible rattle and all of his concentration was on the flight.

"This isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right," Martin muttered fiercely as he navigated the wildly trembling plane.

"We began the plane's descent, Martin—why do you look so anxious? You've landed in worse conditions; I'd think that a little turbulence in a perfectly clear sky shouldn't worry you _too_ badly."

Of course, Douglas's reassuring speech would have been better if it hasn't been given between chattering teeth and a strained voice, but the sentiment remained.

"I look anxious because the _second_ we entered this airspace, Gertie went mad and, despite the fact that we were told to fly there, this place _shouldn't exist_."

MJN's beloved (and only) plane lurched horrifically through the air, the instrument alarms kicking up in a great wail. The town below, sprawled quietly amid miles and miles of scrub and sand, shimmered for a moment, as though it were uncertain whether it _wanted_ to exist after Martin's comment.

And then, as suddenly as everything began, it was placid and still again. The alarms died off with what Martin imagined as a sigh, and the instruments began reading the area around. Brows knitted together in confusion, and maybe worry, Douglas radioed ATC. It was silent for a moment after they made the request for landing, but the radio crackled to life. A bored female voice sifted through the grate over the speaker.

"Roger, Golf-Tango-India. Proceed to—well, whichever runway you want, really. All other flights were moved into the past, and we weren't really expecting you. Welcome, though, to Night Vale."

The radio hummed itself back into muteness and the pilots just looked at each other, eventually shrugging and bringing the plane back to earth on one of the seemingly infinite runways of Randy Newman Memorial Night Vale Airport.

* * *

The entire crew, after being thoroughly rattled by the turbulence and the security measures if the airport, sat slumped together in a booth in one of the many, many, _many_ Applebee's restaurants in this town. Crawling through that tunnel had been bad enough, with a hissing and popping recording of a monotone male voice murmuring about death ("Eaten by your pet snake. Eating glass shards. Drowning in a bathtub."), but the child's voice through the rest of the airport was downright embarrassing.

"Hello, and welcome to Night Vale, Martin Crieff. Please list everyone you've ever kissed. Please know that missing even one name is a Class Four offense and will lead to detainment by the Sheriff's Secret Police, as well as potentially losing your favourite foot."

So Martin recited the short list, breathing out the six names in a rush. Theresa had been the last, and it had been a month ago. He usually missed her, but having to think about how long it had been since he'd seen her—it ached.

_Got in safe. Mostly. Weird place. Call you soon. Love you._

The text sent easily enough, but he did notice a small star-shaped symbol near the battery indicator, glaringly green. He frowned at the symbol, but figured it was something to deal with later.

"So why did you book _three_ nights, Carolyn?" Douglas asked, playing with the straw in his water glass. Condensation dropped down the side of the glass like sweat, pooling on the table in a small puddle.

"Because that's how long we're staying," she said haughtily, swiping a French fry through ketchup but not eating it. Everyone's plates lay mostly untouched, their sandwiches and burgers all contained between portabello mushrooms rather than slices of bread, or even hamburger buns. And... Dear God, were the mushrooms _bleeding_?

"Yes, but _why_ are we staying for so long? We aren't flying Mr Vansten out somewhere else, right? I can only imagine where that might be to."

They had picked up the billionaire in a country that didn't exist, that didn't fit on any maps. It was called Luftknarp, and he'd told Arthur that he had gone on the recommendation of his hometown's favourite radio personality.

"Because all flights out have to be filed with the city council here, as well as something they call the Sheriff's Secret Police, and ATC. It takes a while, I'm told."

Before anyone could refute, the small, old-fashioned radio on the table hissed on of its own accord. Every radio, one on each table near the wall, did the same. Soon, a sonorous male voice bled through the speakers and around the quiet restaurant, only one voice through dozens of speakers.

"Above us, the void screams blackly. Below us, a miniature city _still_ prepares for battle. Around us, entropy and accidents shape the universe as we know it. Welcome to Night Vale."

The restaurant went totally silent as soft, piano-driven music filtered through. It made Martin think of the soundtrack for cheesy science fiction films with Martians and lasers, but perhaps a bit jazzier.

"Mayor Pamela Winchell stated during her daily press conference ths morning, held in front of the new Starbucks that materialized on the corner of Third and Somerset this past Friday, that she will be publicly backing mayoral candidate Trish Hidge.

"'Trish has been one of my best staffers,' the Mayor said proudly, chin held high and eyes glowing as bright and as green as the Moonlite All-Nite Diner in the desert darkness. 'The mayor smells of olives and loves this town, and Trish certainly fulfills these requirements.'

"Though Hidge disappeared several months ago, in a puff of white powder and the scent of olives, I have been told that she reappeared suddenly yesterday in the produce section of the Ralph's. She was clutching several bunches of bananas to her chest and shouting that Mayor Winchell would be our mayor forever.

"But, honestly, listeners, I didn't even know Hidge was running till the Mayor's press conference! The mayoral election later this year sure promises to be a good one!"

As the voice murmured over the airwaves about hooded figures and dying interns and the void that surrounded them all, everyone around the table grew more and more agitated. Martin was particularly distressed while the rest of the crew ranged from vaguely suspicious (Carolyn), mildly confused (Douglas), and somewhat afraid (Arthur). Only Martin was really trying to stem his panic.

"And now," the voice said lightly, sounding so cheerful after telling everyone that over forty had been lost to the Subway Spectre, "the weather."

The weather was, of course, a bright and poppy song that didn't so much as mention anything that might be construed as weather. Martin wasn't sure what he expected, really.

When the host signed off, voice just a bit menacing despite his oddly comforting words, nearly an hour had passed and their plates were all still full. Carolyn thrust her card at a passing waitress, who blinked at it with no less than eight eyes.

"Why are you giving me that?" she asked, voice high and light, somehow perfectly matched to the bouncy ponytail and four pairs of irises.

"To pay for my bill...?" Carolyn said, voice uncharacteristically uncertain as the girl blinked, one eye at a time.

"No, you don't give it to me," the girl said, taking Carolyn's wrist and pushing it back to her chest. "Put your card under the stack of your plates, discuss your favourite movies, and take your card away at the first lull in the conversation. Thanks for paying homage to the great and terrible Apple Bee by enjoying a meal at your neighbourhood Applebee's!"

With that, she sauntered off to wait on a man with a healthy salt-and-pepper beard.

"What's an apple bee?" Arthur asked brightly, looking between his companions for answers. Douglas sighed heavily, resting his forehead against his palm.

"I've no idea, Arthur," he mumbled. "I enjoy any rendition of it, really, but I think the 1935 version of _Les Misérables_ is the best..."

* * *

The motel wasn't anything special, really, save the humming circle of stones in the corner of each room. Despite the odd, resonating noise, Martin fell heavily into bed and melted into the soft sheets. Metaphorically, of course; this felt like the sort of place where distinction mattered.

The free continental breakfast the motel provided wasn't particularly strange, either. It offered the breakfast things he usually expected in America, which really weren't that bad. Arthur took to the meal with gusto, wolfing down a microwave breakfast burrito, a bagel smeared with cream cheese, and more fruit than was likely available in the entire continental United States. So far, so normal. If it weren't for the ten-foot-tall _being_ standing in the corner by the spinning postcard rack, he could even pretend that the day before had been a dream.

But that wasn't so, as evidenced by the ten-foot-tall, vaguely human creature standing in the corner by the spinning postcard rack. It was a bright, glistening, shining white with dozens of eyes scattered about its neck and face and hands and arms, wide mouth showing the occasional threatening glint of sharp teeth as it murmured. The jumper it wore probably made Arthur proud, or just as nauseated as everyone else, considering the garish colours all tangled together.

"Excuse me," Arthur chirped at the bored middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk, watching her guests eat their breakfast with quiet disdain. "What is that?"

This was asked in one of Arthur's trademark whispers, which was just as stealthy as one of his trademark winks. As he was pointing at the creature and whispering as loudly as he could, the creature turned its head and pinned the group with so many eyes. Martin winced with Arthur's use of the word _what_.

"That's Erika," the woman replied, voice a breathy, resigned monotone. "It's one of Old Woman Josie's angels. It doesn't exist, though. Nothing really does."

" _Right_ ," Martin said slowly, drawing out the word as he pointedly looked away from the creature. He wondered who Old Woman Josie was, and whether it really was an angel. He did believe in God, he supposed, and he certainly had renounced Satan, but it was still difficult to accept that that tall, tall creature with the dozens of eyes could be an angel. The bursts of static rising from its back like wings added credence to the theory, but it was still difficult.

He supposed it was best if he listened to the woman behind the desk and told himself that the angel did not exist.

* * *

It didn't matter how small the town, or how dull the surroundings, Arthur _loved_ sightseeing, and Martin enjoyed spending time with his friend. So, shortly after breakfast, when Douglas decided to retreat to the room he was sharing with Martin, and Carolyn slunk off to do whatever she did when they were on layover, Martin and Arthur headed out to see the sights. They walked the tidy streets of the town of Night Vale, carefully sidestepping whatever places the citizens avoided. They passed more towering angels, and a few horrible hooded figures, and more people with strange features than either could count.

Everyone watched the two of them with open suspicion, as though waiting to ask what they were doing there and what they wanted.

The only truly normal person they passed was a man with dark skin and curls walking hand-in-hand with someone just as peculiar as the rest of the town. With the swirling, moving, glowing tattoos and third eye in the centre of his forehead, the normal man's companion was very nearly one of the most interesting things they'd seen today. His sweater vest was a pretty close second.

"Oh! Hello!" said the tattooed man, stopping rather close to Martin and Arthur. He grinned, and his sharp teeth made Martin cringe. Arthur, ever the surprisingly brave person he was, returned the showing of teeth.

"Hello!" Arthur crowed. He waved cheerily at the couple, and the man with the luxurious curls quirked the corner of his mouth into a smile and waved back.

"Are you two scientists?" the tattooed man asked, leaning forward slightly, grin stretching horrifically wider.

"Uh, no," Martin said. "I'm an airline captain. He's a steward."

"Yeah, I didn't think you were scientists—if you were, you'd be working with me. I'm Carlos, by the way." The man with the curls and the dark skin smiled wider, teeth normal and precise in his jaw. He held out a hand.

"Martin," the captain replied, shaking the proffered hand. "This is Arthur."

"I'm Cecil," said the tattooed man, and his smile was very nearly stretched to his ears. Martin barely suppressed a shudder at the smile.

"So what are you doing in Night Vale?" asked the normal man. Carlos. Carlos, who Cecil looked at like he was the most wonderful thing this world had ever known. Carlos, who looked perfectly normal and totally at ease with this terrifying place. It was admirable, and it set Martin's teeth on edge.

"Oh, we're on layover while the paperwork on the flight home goes through," Arthur told the couple. Cecil nodded knowingly while Carlos offered a sympathetic look. Martin frowned, reading between the lines. What if this place never let them go?

"Yes, the TSA and City Council are all in place to keep us safe," Cecil murmured, third eye glowing and voice slipping into a lower register. "They, and the Sheriff's Secret Police, ensure that our little burg is _always_ safe, from _everything_."

"Don't worry," Carlos said softly while Cecil hummed to himself. "I'll put in a good word."

Martin and Arthur thanked Carlos and offered up their goodbyes. They passed a Starbucks with signs on the door reading: DO NOT ENTER, RISK OF DISAPPEARING INTO THE VOID AND/OR EXISTENTIAL DREAD, THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION. They walked across from an endless, obsidian wall that stretched from block to block to block. They passed a pizza place that seemed both menacing and welcoming, with a sign proudly displayed in the window declaring it the _only_ pizza place in Night Vale.

Eventually, they made it back to the hotel, hardly the worse for wear. They'd had to run down a few blocks to avoid being assimilated by a giant, phosphorescent, screeching beetle with screaming faces growing from its exoskeleton.

When Theresa called and ask how his day had gone, Martin had decided that the less madness he divulged, the better.

* * *

He had nightmares.

Beetles, everywhere. The floor black and swirling and writhing with them. The constant _click, click, click_ of their mandibles, of their legs against the floor. Something warm and wet dripping from the ceiling, too black to be blood, perhaps. God, one could only hope. But, hope, that fleeting burst of light from behind the thick cloud cover, hope is never constant.

A hand scrabbling out and brushing against the warm, wet wall. Pulsing vibrantly at the touch, the clicking growing louder and more horrible. The beetles, everywhere. Blood, seeping into shoes. Beetles, _everywhere_.

Beating, beating, beating, beating.

* * *

He had nightmares.

* * *

After far too long in that terrifying desert, dodging hooded figures and being herded into the pizza parlour to partake a "mandatory" slice, the crew finally boarded their ragged aircraft and took off.

Martin hadn't properly breathed since the turbulence of the flight in, and the second the turbulence on the flight out ended, he let out a great sigh. He felt the nightmares brushing out past his lips and the horror hunching his shoulders leach out through sure hands. Douglas didn't speak until they were over the Atlantic. Arthur only bounded into the flight deck with drinks and a smile and nothing more. Carolyn slept the whole time, making soft sounds as the horrors bled out in the shape of nightmares.

Night Vale was like nowhere else in the world, and despite all of the terrible parts that left as one traveled away, it never really left. It stuck around, clinging to the walls of veins and the hollows in bones. It was always there, just there, slick in the space between skin and muscle.

Night Vale never left.

**Author's Note:**

> God, I feel like it's been so long that I've forgotten my CP voices! The boys were stressed through the whole thing, and when they're stressed, they're maybe a little mean to Arthur, and I feel bad, and ugh.  
> Time to get caught up on the many, many CP fics I've missed while trying to catch up to the _Night Vale_ tag! And it's been a long while since I've listened to _Cabin Pressure_. Sending links my way (litbythestars.tumblr.com) wouldn't be a bad idea.  
>  Oh! And that little green star that showed up on Martin's phone is a signal that it's being monitored by the Sheriff's Secret Police. All of their phones had that signal, and it never left, even when they got new phones.


End file.
